Two Truths and a Lie
by Mariposa en Arrullo
Summary: John and Sherlock play a game, and John gets confused.  So does Sherlock.  Sherlock/John, rated for smut in later chapters!
1. Chapter 1

Sometimes John thought this job was getting to be a bit more trouble than it was worth.

It brought in money, of course, which was necessary- but with Sarah's frosty silences and the endless series of painkiller prescriptions and flu diagnoses, it was getting boring. And awkward.

Not to mention _this_- the fact that they had buzzed his mobile in the middle of the night and asked if he could take the morning shift, without as much as an _if you please_. John sighed and rolled his neck around.

It was bright and clean and angular inside the office, and the tired-looking night receptionist gave him a friendly grimace, and he gave her what he hoped was a sane-looking grin back.

John's own private office was similarly white and clean, and he looked at his comfy spinning chair behind his desk for a long moment before choosing not to risk it (he definitely did not want a repeat of the first day's 'Sleeping Beauty' disaster) and settling himself on the floor against the wall.

He was asleep in two minutes.

Some time later, he woke up to a sharp series of knocks on the door. _Goddamn it. _He couldn't leave himself alone for two seconds-

It was Sherlock. John's brain did a little stutter-stutter, and he stared at the taller man for a few seconds.

Sherlock addressed him with his usual warmth. "John."

"Sherlock... How- Why-"

He swept past John, giving the sparse room his usual haughty once over. "My phone charger seems to have- mysteriously vanished." Sherlock turned to face John. "I was simply wondering if you knew its location."

John continued staring at him then laughed, and rubbed his mouth with his fingers. "No, Sherlock." He brushed past him and sat down.

The other man regarded him with his normal concentrated stare, but John just gazed back with what he hoped was a bland, toothless smile.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"Do you mean, no, you do not know where the charger is, or no, you won't tell me where it is?"

"The second."

Sherlock leaned back slowly, still looking at John like he was a tiny mouse and Sherlock was an SUV at a stoplight.

"Why?"

"Sherlock, you took _mine!_I'm simply-" John sputtered for a moment, "- using leverage."

Sherlock took a step forward, and his carefully constructed curls shook a little. "But I need that charger! John-"

But John was shaking his head. "Sherlock, I'm not even going to consider telling you where it is until you promise to give mine back, or buy me a new one. Anyway, can't you deduce where I hid it?"

The detective drew back, and pursed his mouth. "I thought this would be- easier." He looked a bit- sheepish, if Sherlock could ever look such a way.

John laughed doubtfully. "Do you promise to give it back? I want it in writing."

Sherlock looked at John for a short moment. "Fine. Where is it?"

But John wasn't giving up the upper hand so fast. "How about we play for it?" He stifled a grin.

Sherlock was skeptical. "Play- what, exactly?" he inquired, with his usual slow disdain.

John smiled. "How about Two truths and a lie? Ever played that one?" He had a strange vision of Sherlock and Mycroft playing poker as children, and shuddered.

Sherlock frowned. "How does it work?"

John gestured to one of the wood chairs in front of his desk. Sherlock sat quickly.

John leaned forward, elbows resting on the surface. "I tell you three facts about myself. Two are true, one is a lie. You guess which the lie is." He leaned back. "This should be fun."

Sherlock was still frowning. "That's hardly fair. I know everything about you."

John huffed out a laugh. "_Everything?_That's... disturbing." Sherlock gave him a Look.

"Fine, I'll try to make it really hard. If you guess right three times in a row, I'll let you have the charger. Alright?"

Sherlock nodded slowly, then leaned forward so his elbows rested on the desk, hands intertwined as usual in front of his mouth. "Go on."

John was ready. "Okay- one: I have an uncle who collects giant cacti."

Sherlock gave John a second Look.

John grinned. "Second: I ate a dog's foot in Afghanistan once on a dare."

Sherlock gave one of his '_society is failing me_' sighs, and tilted his head to the right.

John leaned forward. "And I lost my virginity to my PE teacher." He smiled as Sherlock looked at him sharply.

Now he was all business. "Male or female?"

"Male."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes again. "The second."

John grinned again, as always amazed by Sherlock and his insane brain. "Incredible."

Sherlock ignored him. "This game is for children, John. Let's get on with it, if you please."

John forced his face into a serious expression, and coughed into his fist. "Yes, of course."

He thought for a few seconds. "Alright- first: I punched Harry when I was five. Two, I broke my left pinkie finger because I thought it looked like a pink nail when I was four. Three... the first gun I ever fired was a BB gun at the carnival. There."

Sherlock closed his eyes for a beat, then said lazily, "First."

"That's... amazing! Sherlock, you are-"

But Sherlock was staring at the floor with a disinterested expression. "John."

"Right. Okay, give me a moment."

John licked his lips quickly. "Okay, one, I dyed my hair orange when I was fifteen. Two, my mum really wanted me to go to Cambridge, but I didn't. Three- oh hell- okay, I... er... sometimes I steal your special soap in the shower because I like how it smells." _It smells like you. _

Good god, he was an idiot. John shut that slightly mad part of his brain up quickly and mercilessly, and said, "Alright, go." He risked a glance at Sherlock.

But this time the consulting detective was looking at him with a strange expression on his face. It was like he was trying to frown and look like he wasn't frowning at the same time, and the result was very adorable, and did confusing things to a certain army doctor's heart.

He shook himself out of it. "Come on, Sherlock. I need an answer." He tried to sound gruff and serious, but it was hard when Sherlock looked like a child who had just been told he had to eat his Brussels sprouts before having a lollipop.

Finally, he spoke. "The... last."

John suspected his smile was reaching his ears. "No."

Sherlock scowled. "Which one was it?" He refused to make eye contact with John, instead choosing to address the wall next to his head.

"The second. My mum went to Bath, too. She was over the moon when I got accepted."

Sherlock shook his head minutely, compressing his lips into a thin line, and turned to look at John again. "So I suppose we must play again?"

John tried to keep from smiling, and failed miserably. "Yes." He decided he was enjoying himself far too much.

Sherlock had his long fingers up to his mouth again, and was regarding John with an unreadable expression.

John broke the silence. "Well, alright, Sherlock. One more. If you get this one, I'll tell you where it is."

His flatmate tilted his head slightly, a signal for John to get on with it.

John looked at him for a second, and sighed. He was never going to be able to keep up with this insane, marvelous man. Not for a second.

But that didn't mean he wasn't going to try. "I like looking at your hair. Sometimes I try to guess the color, and I name it really strange color names, like dead fox, and oak tree bark, and- oh hang it, what was that one? Oh yes, slightly too burned marshmallow. That one was good."

John searched his brain frantically. He had a theory that though Sherlock might not be stumped by the innermost workings of John's brain, he just might be puzzled by John's illogical, insane, and slightly worrisome thoughts about Sherlock himself. Still, John searched his brain frantically. It wasn't as if he had a dearth of thoughts about Sherlock, it was more a dearth of appropriate facts about Sherlock. The first one was suspicious enough. _Surely_he had some inane, harmless, flatmate-y thoughts about Sherlock he could share.

"Erm... I think you've got good taste in music." Completely untrue. Whatever Sherlock did on that violin was torturous and definitely slightly Satanic.

Sherlock was gazing at him again, with that completely unfathomable look, and John knew that he saw through him, like always. He sighed. It was, of course, hopeless, to try to fool the great Sherlock Holmes. It was actually downright embarrassing. He should have known.

"Oh, _alright_, Sherlock. This is pointless. You're going to get it anyways." John sighed again, and smiled wryly. "I'll tell you where it is."

John thought he saw Sherlock frown, a very tiny movement of his eyebrows towards each other.

"Go on."

"What?"

Sherlock was staring at him with that look on his face again. "I said go on."

John let the consternation on his face show through. "Right." He thought hard. "Well- I don't think you're a sociopath."

Sherlock looked at John sharply, and for the life of him he couldn't tell what was going on inside the consulting detective's mind.

Sherlock opened his mouth, but John cut him off.

"I know, you're a 'high functioning' sociopath. But I don't think you are." John looked at the ceiling. "I think you tell people that because you think it makes sense. But I've seen you."

Sherlock was staring at John again, and he blushed, but blundered on.

"I saw your face when Sebastian Wilkes was talking about you in 'uni.' 'We hated him.' Your face... I can't even describe." John leaned back. "It made me want to hit him." He chuckled dryly.

"And then when I got angry at you, because you wouldn't stop smiling, during the Moriarty case- you just looked at me. You said, "Don't make people into heroes, John. " And I thought, but you are a hero. I wanted to tell you how many people you'd saved, how many children that have parents because of you, how many criminals are rotting behind bars because of what you do."

Sherlock had the strangest expression. It was almost sad, and John wanted to make him smile; make him laugh, anything, to get that bloody look off his face, like John had stolen his candy cane. He swore internally at his stupid, stupid mouth.

John shifted uncomfortably. "Erm... well. That was- I didn't mean to rant." He risked a glance at Sherlock. "That one was true, obviously."

Sherlock was staring at him with that deeply concentrated gaze that he normally only gave to the wall when he was on a particularly puzzling case. It was unnerving. John swallowed almost audibly.

"The second was the lie." When Sherlock spoke, his voice was steady, but John sensed some undercurrent of something _else _under his words. He tried looking hard at the detective's face, to see if by trying to stare holes into the other man's eyes he could see into his mad brain. But Sherlock was studying the wall next to him like it was graffiti-ed with ancient cuneiform, and all John got was his profile.

He sighed for the third time that morning. "Okay then, Sherlock. You get your prize." John reached into the deep pocket of his jacket, and drew out the long black cord of the charger. "Here it is. Congratulations."

Sherlock frowned. He carefully retrieved the thin line from John's hand, stowed it in his coat pocket, and stood with his usual grace. He still refused to meet John's eyes.

"I shall see you at home, then?" If John hadn't been so in tune with the rumble of his flatmate's voice, he might have missed the faint gruffness to it. He sounded- John couldn't think of the word until much later- almost_ uncertain_, like he was stepping on thin ice and didn't know the right way to walk.

John realized his mouth was hanging open slightly as he watched Sherlock put on his gloves.

"Yeah- yes." John's eyes, almost of their own accord, followed the consulting detective as he left the room. "Yes."


	2. Chapter 2

When John trudged up the stairs to his flat at the godforsaken hour of five o'clock in the morning, Sherlock was conspicuously absent.

Unfortunately for John, or maybe luckily for the man, his insane flatmate was like a constant firework, blazing and burning a bit too bright and dangerous for its own good, especially for the people around him.

But when he was gone, and John hated to admit it, the flat seemed a bit less warm, and a lot less inviting. It was a lot easier to plop down on 'his chair' and watch some crap telly knowing Sherlock was about to blow himself to bits in the kitchen or better still, calmly poisoning his bloodstream with nicotine on the couch.

John decided he would wait an hour, then text the man. After all, Sherlock was just his flatmate, and didn't have to alert John to his whereabouts at every single moment of the goddamn day.

He punched the pillow.

***

After a very old Doctor Who, the BBC morning news, and three cups of tea later, Sherlock bounded up the stairs. John very deliberately glanced at him once, then looked away and muttered, 'Hello."

Sherlock went into the kitchen.

John sighed and shifted around in the armchair. He picked up the remote and switched the channel to a programme about the oldest man in the world, who was, apparently, 115 and _still_ a virgin.

John heard a very loud clattering from the kitchen. He put the telly on mute.

"Sherlock? You alright?"

There was a crash. "Yes, yes, fine." He sounded annoyed. For the umpteenth time, John muttered something like '_get killed then see if I care_', and pursed his lips.

He was bored. So very bored. He started to imagine what Sherlock went through in his "bad times." Of course, John didn't feel the urge to get up and shoot the bloody wall, but he wasn't  
>a high-functioning sociopath. Fortunately for him.<p>

Sherlock came back into the room, and dithered by the desk. John heard papers shuffling, but resolutely did not ask what the other man was doing. He kept his eyes glued to the screen as Mr. Zambula- something rambled on about Ghandi and cat litter in broken English.  
>In the corner of his eye, Sherlock flopped- no, lowered himself gracefully<em>, <em>John was quite certain Sherlock could never _flop_- onto the couch. He was silent for exactly five and a half seconds.

"What are you watching?" Sherlock's voice was petulant.

John cleared his throat before responding. "Programme about the oldest man in the world," he said, still not looking at his flatmate.

John saw Sherlock shift somewhat on the couch. He didn't respond.

John decided to do some well-earned Sherlock Digging, as he called it. Sometimes, when he was very, very careful, and Sherlock was bored, he would open up about his life. It wasn't easy, extracting such golden nuggets of knowledge out of the nebulous cavern of Sherlock's brain, but if John was cautious, he could get some quite good stuff.

"He's 115," he began. "And a virgin."

John thought he heard a yawn.

He tried again. "Isn't that funny?" He listened for an answer.

Nothing.

John tried the direct approach. "Are you a virgin?"

No answer. John looked over to see if Sherlock was sleeping, and found Sherlock looking at him.

Well, damn. _So much for subtlety._

John flushed and looked back to the telly, giving up. He tried to focus on the show, when he heard Sherlock's voice.

"No."

John looked back sharply. Sherlock was gazing at the ceiling like it was the most goddamn interesting thing on the whole planet.

"No?" John stared at him, then tried to make a joke. "Who'd you convince to have sex with you?"

Sherlock's lips tightened in a tiny frown, and John felt bad immediately.

"I mean, erm, that's good. Good." He tried to squash totally irrelevant and baseless feeling of jealousy. It probably wasn't even jealousy, more of a big brother type anger at whoever stole Sherlock's- well, he was _not_ thinking about that. Emphasis on the _not._

John kept his voice casual. "So, anyone I know, then?" He switched idly between channels, trying to project a nonchalant manner, and pressing the button on the remote so hard it refused to rise back up again.

"Yes, in fact." Sherlock sounded bored.

John was decidedly not.

"Oh." John held out for a few seconds, then, cursing, gave in. "Who was it?"

Sherlock sighed, and put what was probably a nicotine patch in his pale forearm. "Lestrade."

In the middle of taking a gulp of his neglected tea, now cold, John choked. He coughed for a few moments, pondering in the back of his head how very suspicious and very_ not_ normal this all looked, at least from Sherlock's point of view. He grimaced and took another sip of the cold liquid to sooth his throat. Once he deemed himself fully in control of his vocal chords, he asked, "When did that happen?"

"Five years ago," the other man replied lazily.

John thought this over. He was absurdly glad it wasn't within the time period he and Sherlock were living together, for some reason. John resolutely swore to shut his bloody mouth for the rest of the show. He would not speak unless Sherlock addressed him directly. _Not_. Emphasis on the not.

"Was it good, then?" John blushed beet red the moment the words were out of his mouth. _Goddamn bloody fucking bollocks. _He decided he was fully and completely incapable of self-control. In reality, he was probably mentally incapacitated, and thus had no fault for whatever lunatic things came out of his mouth. He thought about this for a while, trying to will his face into its normal color. Actually, he was thinking so hard he almost missed Sherlock's reply.

"It wasn't rape, if that's what you mean."

John looked over and saw Sherlock staring at him, looking annoyed.

"No, I wasn't- I mean, of course it wasn't-"

John fell silent, trying to find the right words. "I just meant, " he began slowly, "was it a good experience? For you, I mean." He blushed as soon as he stopped talking.

Sherlock, still regarding him with those reptilian eyes (which were definitely_ not _beautiful), said, "No." He rolled back onto his back and reached for another nicotine patch. "Sex is an altogether unpleasant activity. I have almost no idea why ordinary people find it such an infinite source of amusement."

John had really no idea what to say to that. He considered his words. "Well." He looked at the ceiling. "Um. It can be-" he chose his adjective carefully, "- quite entertaining. Sometimes."

He looked back over at Sherlock. The man had his eyes closed, but John knew he wasn't asleep.

But John decided to end the conversation while they were both firmly ensconced in their platonic roles. _No sense in making things awkward. _

As he turned off the telly and stretched silently, Sherlock spoke again.

"Prove it."

"What?" John could have sworn he misheard. But Sherlock was staring at him again, with that look in his eyes.

Sherlock never repeated himself. Instead, he swung his legs down and sat up, gazing at John with a strangely determined look, like the one he had given John earlier. It was brave, but John could see the fear underneath that Sherlock could usually hide so well with arrogance and insults. He was struck with a crazy desire to reassure his friend that everything was going to be alright.

And then Sherlock opened his mouth again.

"_You_ claim sex is enjoyable. _I _know it's the opposite. For this experiment to succeed, you _need _data. You need to prove that it_ is_ enjoyable."

John became aware that his mouth was gaping open like a fish, and closed it. "Sherlock, do you want-" he reddened a little, but continued. "Do you want to have sex- with me?" His ears went red as his voice cracked down the last word.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No, John. I want to have sex with the skull, it would be so much easier."

John looked very puzzled.

"_Of course_ with you. For God's sake, you can be very slow sometimes."

The smaller man brushed off the insult with well-practiced ease, replying, "I don't think that would be a good idea." The words almost hurt to say, but he forced them out anyways. This was just Sherlock being bored, wanting to be entertained, he reminded himself.

Sherlock frowned, but his blank mask slid back on almost instantly. "Why not?"

"Because!" John sputtered indignantly. "It would ruin everything! Sherlock, sex isn't some game."

"Please. It's a simple carnal act, John. I probably wouldn't even get hard."

John shook his head hard, closing his eyes. _ You have to treat him like a toddler,_ he told himself firmly. _Don't give him everything he wants._

Sherlock must have sensed John's withdrawal, and he tried a different approach. "How about a kiss, then?" His voice was disconcertingly casual as he looked up at John.

John closed his open mouth for the second time. "Will it stop you from talking about-" he gestured vaguely, "-all this?"

Sherlock frowned again. "Yes. Fine. Kiss me." He moved over impatiently on the couch.

John's brain was moving a mile a minute. On one hand, this was an_ insanely_ awful, horrendous, calamitous- he ran out of adjectives- thing to do.

On the other hand, Sherlock wanted him to kiss him. On the mouth.

_For science_, John reminded himself sternly. _It's an experiment._

The doctor sighed and gingerly planted himself on the couch. Sherlock was looking at him, and the eyes that had seemed so gray and cold and ignorable from the armchair were practically dancing less than a foot away from his own. John glanced surreptitiously at Sherlock's mouth, then blushed and looked away.

Sherlock made an impatient sound in the back of his throat that sounded suspiciously like a groan. John felt a familiar twitch in his nether regions, and swore again. He was absolutely not going to get a hard-on. No. Emphasis on the _not._

"John."

Jolted, the army doctor looked back to Sherlock, who was even closer than before. He felt Sherlock's breath on his face, warm and feeling a whole lot too bloody nice to be healthy.

John swallowed. Sherlock had that goddamn look again, like he was on precariously thin ice and wasn't sure which direction was safe. John's last sane thought was that Sherlock had realized that look rendered John mentally unstable and was using it against him, before he leaned forward the few inches that separated them and pressed his lips to his friend's. 


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: I would just like to thank everybody who read and commented on this piece. You were all so nice and supportive, especially as this is my first fanfic. I very much appreciate it Please enjoy!

It was a bit awkward, at first; because at the first touch of John's lips Sherlock went all stiff like he'd been electrocuted.

_Of course you're going to make this difficult_, John huffed. _Of course._

But then Sherlock tilted his head, just a little bit, and _oh yes that was good_. John's head went a bit hazy as he pressed his lips against Sherlock's, over and over. He reached out to cup the other man's face without thinking, and he felt Sherlock's arms settle on his waist, light enough to be tentative, but solid, like he was holding on tight so John could never leave.

It wasn't quite chaste, even though there were no tongues involved. John didn't think he could handle tongues, he might spontaneously combust. But when he nibbled on Sherlock's bottom lip, the other man gasped, and John couldn't resist. He greedily poked his own tongue in, and everything suddenly got very much more wet, and hot, and Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. At some point in the daze the detective did something especially devious with his tongue, and John had to bite back an embarrassing moan.

It wasn't fair how good Sherlock was at snogging, but somehow John couldn't quite bring himself to care too much as the man sucked kisses onto his neck with a possessiveness that John almost definitely did not find incredibly arousing.

He had to admit, it was brilliant, kissing a firework, all bright and sizzling and colors behind closed eyes. But at some point the hazy fog that had settled over John's brain shattered, because Sherlock had shifted his leg on the couch, and it brushed dangerously close to John's groin.

And that was when the doctor realized he had what could only be called a 'raging erection.'

He shot up and away from Sherlock like a mouse with a scorched tail, and just stood there, panting. His brain suddenly stuttered back to life, and John remembered where he was, who he was with, and most importantly, what the _hell_ he was doing.

Sherlock had his eyes closed, lips compressed into a thin line, and was shaking very slightly. John's mentally unstable side noted how deliciously disheveled the detective looked, with his hair all mussed, his shirt collar askew, and his face pink.

Then he looked at his crotch-_ bloody hell-_ and then, curiously, at Sherlock's. But his flatmate was wearing his usual dark trousers, and his hands were covering the area like it was a grenade primed for explosion.

In the back of his mind, John thought that was pretty incriminating. Except John wasn't going to be doing this thinking business anymore, because it only landed him with trouble and raging erections. 

He looked at Sherlock again, who seemed like he was trying to slow down his breathing.

To be honest, John had never been good with awkward social situations, and he had no idea what the proper thing to do here was. Should he state the obvious?

_I'm very much attracted to you, Sherlock, and I think about buggering you an unhealthy amount._

No, no, definitely not.

Plan B was simple- turn around and run upstairs to his room, take a cold (make that icy) shower, and sleep it all off. In the magical world of Plan B, John would wake up in the morning and it would all be a dream.

He decided on the second option, because he very much didn't want to see the disgust in Sherlock's eyes when finally opened them.

Anyways, it was without a doubt entirely Sherlock's fault that _that_- whatever _that_ was- had occurred. He was the one who bloody well made John snog his stupid fucking mouth, for God's sake!

He was the one who should worry about it. John would be aloof and polite, and very normal, and _very_ flatmate-y. Hell, he might even ruffle the man's hair, because that's what friends _do._

The doctor laughed humorlessly as he got ready for bed. _You don't love him,_ he reminded himself determinedly. _He's your friend._

_But he's not your friend_ said John's sneaky little incapacitated side. _You just snogged the living daylights out of the man and you call that a friendship?_

_You don't have to be so mean_, John retorted, turning over on his side restlessly. _So I like to snog him, so what? I don't suppose you're a latent homophobe or anything._

_So you like to snog him, indeed_, mused the voice, teasing in his ear as he tried to get comfortable. His bed felt like it was full of sharp stones. It continued: _suppose he likes to snog you?_

"Shut up!" John snarled into the pillow, and laughed at himself bitterly. What a sad, crazy old mess he was becoming. "Good night."

He fell asleep around five A.M.

When John woke up, his mind was blissfully blank and empty. But he was reminded far too soon of last night's- _activities_- because apparently, his little (or not so little) friend had come back to visit him while he was sleeping.

Bloody hell, he had an erection. _Again._

Cursing, John threw the tangled sheets off himself, and turned the water in the shower to the coldest possible setting with a sharp jerk of his wrist.

_Don't think about him, don't think about him, John, just don't- think. About. Him._

He wondered where Sherlock was. Damn it all, but he couldn't help thinking about him and what he did after their encounter, maybe- his face burned thinking about it- jerking off, long fingers sliding up and down his length, shouting John's name as he came-

And that was entirely enough of that.

Eventually, he pulled himself together enough to get dressed and walk downstairs. John was playing the Let's See How Normal I Can Pretend Everything Is game with himself, and needless to say he was losing miserably.

However, there was no sense in prolonging the matter, and besides, John had fought in a sodding _war_, and he ought to be able to have A Talk with Sherlock without making a complete fool out of himself. Anyways, having the "I'm Sorry I Snogged You and Got an Erection When it Was Supposed to Be an Experiment" talk would be a dreadfully awkward business with a normal person, so of course, statistically, it would be about 100 times worse with Sherlock.

All this vanished like a kid's porn magazine when John found his flatmate in the kitchen, pressing napkins to what seemed to be a deep wound in his side.

John gaped at him.

"Sherlock!" He burst out, and then blushed because his voice came out all high-pitched and scratchy.

Sherlock ignored him, and smoothed on another wet napkin, refusing to look anywhere but the sink.

John cleared his throat, and tried again. "What the hell did you do?" He took an uncertain step forward.

Sherlock flinched, and John tried not to feel hurt. He stood where he was, silently debating whether he ought to take care of it, being a bloody _doctor_ and all, or whether to run far, far away.

He swore internally.

Sherlock was glaring daggers at the sink, holding the napkins on his side.

John coughed.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, and didn't look at him.

"Obviously, I have accidentally injured myself,_ John_." He pressed a little harder on the cut.

John scowled. "And how did you manage that, exactly?" He tried to sound scathing, but missed the mark and ended up a hurt child.

Sherlock addressed the sink. "I was merely trying to ascertain whether human blood was affected the same as pig's blood by different quantities of liquor." He frowned. "I just needed a sample. I must have misjudged the distance."

John was confused. 'Sorry, why couldn't you just use a finger prick?"

The other man rolled his eyes. "_Clearly_, I needed a larger quantity of blood," he replied, completely leaving John in the dust in the scathing department.

"Oh." John considered this. "You know, it's never going to stop bleeding like that." He tried a grin. "You must've deleted the fact that napkins aren't the best treatment for knife wounds."

Sherlock looked at him for the first time in the conversation. "Oh, and what would you have me do, _doctor_?" He practically spat the last word.

John held his gaze, and carefully covered the last few steps between them. Sherlock did his best to hold his ground, silently glaring down at the other man.

But he flinched away again when John put out a hand to his side. John stood still, and murmured, "I'm not going to hurt you, I'm just going to stop the bleeding."

"I'm not worried about you hurting me," the man bit out harshly, but he let John peel away the layers and look at the wound.

It was about eight inches long, and parallel to his belly button. Fresh blood quickly rose as John stared, threatening to bubble over and slide down Sherlock's white, pale stomach.

John licked his lips. "Okay, I'm going to go get my medical kit. I don't think you'll need stitches, but I'm going to need to clean it up a bit." He looked up at Sherlock. The man was staring at him with a strange, unreadable look.

John suddenly noticed how close they were- if he just leaned forward a few inches he could touch Sherlock's lips with his own- and stood back. He pressed the napkins back on.

"I'll be right back." Heaven forefend, Sherlock was frowning, and John's stomach remembered how to churn. He swallowed, and asked, "Can you please go sit on the couch?"

Sherlock tried to stare him down, but John wasn't budging. Finally, he straightened up and nodded, with a slight sneer.

The edge of John's mouth quirked up. "Good." He left quickly before the brilliant man could change his mind.

When he came back, Sherlock was reclining stiffly on the couch with one hand on his soggy, bloody mess of paper and both eyes closed.

John regarded him for a moment. He cleared his throat awkwardly.

Sherlock opened his eyes and gestured lazily to his cut.

"Get on with it, if you please, _doctor_." He sounded distantly malicious, and John wondered why the title of respect always sounded like an insult when his flatmate said it.

John pursed his lips, and reminded himself not to lose his _fucking_ temper. He set the kit down on the table a little harder than necessary, and aimed for a cold tone. "Lie down on your back."

Sherlock complied slowly, and when he was stretched out, curled his toes contemptuously around the arm of the sofa.

John knelt in front of the wound, and muttered, "You can take your hand off it now."

Sherlock moved his fingers. John was momentarily distracted by the smooth whiteness of his flatmate's skin, before Sherlock made a pointed sound and shifted impatiently.

John reddened a bit, and was glad Sherlock had his eyes closed. He let his irritation run over into his voice, and grunted, "Stop moving."

Sherlock settled back into the cushions. John peeled off the mess of napkins, and carefully wiped at the dried blood with a sterile tissue.

He glanced at the other man's face. It must have at least stung, but Sherlock was forcing his body still. John felt a pang of sympathy, then gritted his teeth and told his sympathy to _sod off_.

Once the wound was clean, John smoothed on some anti-infection cream, and bandaged the area up tight. he could do the procedure practically in his sleep.

Sherlock still had his eyes shut, and he had on a peaceful expression. John felt a well of tenderness rise up at the sight of his friend, and cruelly squashed it. He hated how he had to forcibly stop himself from reaching down and smoothing Sherlock's fluffy bangs with his fingers.

John cleared his throat again. Sherlock's eyes flew open, and the two men stared at each other for a long moment.

John wanted to say eighteen different things, each beginning with 'I'm sorry', and one (which was definitely out of the question), ending with 'I love you.'

But Sherlock averted his eyes first, and he pulled down his shirt almost self-consciously, fiddling with the hem as he stared at the window.

John wanted to shake him.

Instead, he rubbed his eyes with his thumb and pointer finger, and said, "Are we going to talk about this?"

Sherlock had his eyes shut again, but John saw the corners of his mouth turn down.

"To what are you referring?"

John stared at him, then laughed sourly. Why did every fucking thing he tried to do have to be so goddamn _difficult_ with this man?

He calmed himself down, and thought carefully about his next words.

"Look, Sherlock, I- well, I'm very sorry," he managed stiffly.

Sherlock was studying him, and frowning absently, which seemed to be his go-to expression for John nowadays. He said nothing.

John thought it would be less awkward if he was sitting, too. "Can I...?" he asked, gesturing to the empty space on the sofa.

Sherlock shifted slightly to the side. John took that as a yes, and sat down, careful not to touch the other man's thigh with his own.

He continued. "Anyways, um. I don't want-" he swallowed past the lump in his throat. "I don't want to make you, erm, uncomfortable."

There. He said it. It was done. He glanced at Sherlock.

The detective was doing that _thing_ again. His eyes were wide open and he was looking at John intently, like he was trying to see right through him.

The doctor gulped. He tried to laugh at the awkwardness of it all, but the sound died somewhere in his throat and came out a nervous squeak.

He coughed. "Uh, Sherlock?" John was beginning to regret ever starting this conversation, and Sherlock was still just bloody well gazing at him, which seemed like a bad sign.

The lump returned, but he swallowed it back. "Look, Sherlock, I can find another place, if you want, I completely understand-" He was babbling, but couldn't stop, because he couldn't leave, not back to his therapist and the bloody stupid awful thing that was _life_ before Sherlock, where walking was the most exciting bloody thing to happen every day.

He almost felt tears rising at the stupidity of it all, because if his body could have just damn well controlled itself he could have gone on with Sherlock like before, maybe forever, and maybe the consulting detective would never notice John was madly and irreparably in love with him. He squeezed his eyes shut.

"Shut up."

John opened his eyes in disbelief.

"What?"

Sherlock had a strange, desperate look on his face. "I said shut up."

John licked his lips. Obviously, he had said the wrong thing. "I'm sorry-"

"Stop_ talking!_"

John gaped at the other man. He was trembling a little, and breathing heavier than normal. His teeth were clenched tight together, and his eyes were stormy.

"I don't under-"

Sherlock cut him off sharply. "You're attracted to me," he hissed.

John was utterly lost. "Yes?" He ventured.

Sherlock was practically spitting. "And you think I'm angry with you? You _think_-" he paused, "- I'm so _disgusted_ with you, I want you to move out?"

John said, "Er."

Sherlock continued as if he hadn't spoken. He leaned forward, eyes dark and fierce. "Are you that _stupid_, John? Even I didn't think you were a _complete_ idiot."

John had had enough. "Can you please tell me what the hell is going on?" He snapped impatiently, shifting so he faced Sherlock squarely on the couch.

His flatmate ignored him again. "After I asked you to have sex with me! And you _refused_!"

John tried to slow the conversation down to his level. "But you didn't want it for that! You said it yourself- it was an experiment."

Sherlock laughed coldly. "I lied, John. Sociopath, remember?" He looked away. 'I am- well. I apologize for that."

John processed this slowly, trying to stifle the bubble of hope that was growing in his chest.

He smiled weakly, hesitantly. "Oh."

Sherlock chuckled grimly, studying the floor with feigned nonchalance. "_Oh_, indeed."

Sherlock was giving an entirely new meaning to the phrase, "_Too good to be true_", and John couldn't help but try to make sure it wasn't a dream, or worse, a misunderstanding.

"So, you're attracted to me, too?" he asked slowly.

Sherlock was staring straight ahead, lips mashed together. "I suppose so." His voice was cool.

John smiled then, a huge spreading of muscles that felt strange after what seemed like years of frowning.

"Well. Good." John stared straight ahead as well. Sherlock _wanted_ him! Perhaps not like John wanted him, but he would take what he was given happily. He felt reckless, and light, and giddy.

And very reckless. "So, sex?"

He felt Sherlock turn and look at him. The detective made a sound in his throat.

They both spoke at once.

"I understand if you-"

"John, I only-"

They stopped.

"-don't want to."

"-want you."

They stared at each other.

Endnote: To Eris-Discord- The site won't allow me to reply to your review so: I'd just like to mention that I totally and completely do not ship Sherlock/Lestrade even the tiniest bit. My headcanon background of their 'incident' is that it was a Christmas party at Scotland Yard, and Lestrade invited Sherlock because they had just met and he felt bad for him (Sherlock being Sherlock). And Sherlock went, because he was all cute and uncertain and wanted to make friends, but didn't know how. And Lestrade had just gotten divorced, and he got really drunk and made a pass at Sherlock. And Sherlock was really confused, because he didn't like Lestrade that way, but he let it happen because he was curious and after he decided sex was awful. And Lestrade woke up the next morning at his flat, alone, and had no idea what had happened. And neither of them have any sexual feelings towards the other, subconscious or conscious, except affection. :D 


	4. Chapter 4

This time it was Sherlock who initiated the kiss, leaning forward and capturing the back of John's neck and mashing their lips together.

For a second, the doctor was immobile, still not used to the new and uncharted territory that was _them_- him and Sherlock.

Or perhaps, John mused, as he tried something devious of his own and stifled a smile at Sherlock's whimper- this whole "them" thing wasn't so new after all.

It was getting a bit steamy again, with all the tongues- oh dear _God_- and the _hands. _He squirmed a bit as Sherlock took a break from licking John's teeth and began unbuttoning his shirt, with fingers (John noticed with evil glee) that were shaking slightly.

He had a hard-on, _again_. Once the detective rid John of his shirt, he leant down to run his hands over John's back, skimming the scar on his shoulder with care. John moaned a little, unthinkingly, and tried to clear his head. It was time to establish some sort of rule- or at least a guideline, so they didn't rush into anything Sherlock might wake up regretting.

"Sherlock-" He tried, trying not to whimper at soft touches on his stomach. "We- we should stop- I can't-"

_-control myself if you keep doing that_, he had meant to say. But then Sherlock bit down softly on John's earlobe and sucked, and John lost all ability to form coherent thought whatsoever.

Sherlock traced the outline of the hickeys he had left on John's neck with the tip of his tongue. John wriggled. The other man held him down with a hand on his unscarred shoulder.

"Shut up," Sherlock breathed against his neck, and through his haze of arousal John felt the other man smile into his skin.

John mumbled something that might have been "Okay" or maybe just a mass of random syllables. Either way, Sherlock took his response as a yes to whatever wicked thing he was planning, which turned out to be pushing the hard- very hard- heel of his hand directly on John's straining cock.

The doctor groaned loudly, pushing up blindly, trying to feel some shame and failing miserably.

In a flash he was being manhandled onto his back, Sherlock between his legs, still rubbing his bloody hand on John's erection.

He closed his eyes, unable to watch anymore. Then his fly was unzipped and his pants and boxers pulled down roughly to his thighs, leaving him as bare as a milkmaid in a haystack.

John opened his eyes in alarm. Sherlock was removing his own clothes with a fiery intensity that made John- quite impossibly- even more turned on. His mouth gaped open a bit when Sherlock stripped off his own trousers and shorts completely, leaving his cock bobbing in front of him, red and flushed, and John felt a flash of unadulterated want- to touch it, and feel it, and taste it.

And Sherlock could never quite deny John anything, so the detective leaned down to fit their mouths back together and laid on top of him.

It was a fast blur after that point, and John got a little lost in the sharp friction of their two cocks together and the pressure building slowly somewhere low in his body.

He bit his lip hard, refusing to come before the other man. But it seemed like Sherlock was just as far along, and soon he was biting John's neck like an animal and thrusting fast and firm against John's thigh.

John came suddenly, arms holding his friend's neck like it was a lifeline. Sherlock followed with a savage growl, mouthing John's neck one last time and then relaxing against his chest.

John was a mess. He panted, and slowly the sharp height he had reached fell away to a comforting drowsiness.

He was, at least, _mostly_ certain Sherlock had enjoyed that. The great detective was still slumped on his chest, a warm, heavy weight, and John could feel the stickiness of their come between their two bodies.

He wouldn't have thought Sherlock was the after-sex cuddling type, but John wasn't complaining.

Well, he did complain about one thing.

"Sherlock, "John started, mouth blocked by a mass of wild curls, "Can you please move your head?"

Sherlock ignored him, and he was going to sneeze snot all over if the man didn't bloody move. The dark hairs tickled his nose, and he wrinkled it in annoyance, writhing.

Sherlock huffed in irritation as his pillow took on a life of its own. He shifted his face to the side, pressing it into John's neck.

John was surprised. Normally Sherlock would have only bitchy looks and tart words for a request like that. Perhaps- John laughed inwardly at the though- post-orgasm Sherlock was like an alter ego that was kind and obedient.

Except John sort of liked him the way he was. He was fine; John thought fondly as he stroked Sherlock's head, locks surprisingly soft under his fingers. Sherlock gave a little shiver of pleasure, and made a sound almost like a purr.

John lost himself a little again, to the feeling of his flatmate all warm and solid on his torso, and didn't realize he was tracing his name on the other man's back until too late.

He reddened, and hoped the consulting detective hadn't noticed, but of course Sherlock's back could make deductions just as well as his brain. He felt a rumble of laughter shake his body, and knew he was caught.

John wanted to say something then, but he had that feeling he had the right words but they had slipped away when he wasn't looking. He settled for a stilted, "I'm glad you're here," and then blushed, because what would Sherlock say to that?

He felt a puff of air in his ear, and then words, which were dry and matter-of-fact but unusually hesitant.

"I believe I love you, John."

He went cold, then hot, then just very still.

John's throat felt like a treacherous cavern, croaky and echo-y. He cleared his throat, and rasped out, "I love you, too, Sherlock," and felt a wave of fierce affection sweep over him in a bright instant.

He waited for a response, but only felt the steadiness of the other man's breathing pulsing against his chest, and promptly fell asleep.

Hours, or minutes, or seconds later John woke, feeling cold. His flatmate was gone, but John himself was fully clothed, and had a blanket tucked up to his chin. He stared at it for a moment, panicked, brain flashing in a dozen wild scenarios where Sherlock had run away in disgust and John could never find him.

Then he heard a frazzled, excited voice from the kitchen.

"John! John, I know you're awake." He heard a clang and a sizzle. "John, I _need_ your help for an experiment."

The doctor's heart slowed down its rapid-fire beating. He exhaled slowly, and chuckled weakly in relief.

But he wouldn't give in so fast. After all, the New John Watson was many things, but not one to cave in right away.

"What do you need me for?" He asked, wondering distantly how this absolutely unbelievable life had become his own.

There was another short bang. It seemed Sherlock hadn't heard him. "John, I need to determine whether I can make you reach climax by solely stimulating your balls."

John's throat locked, and he felt a delicious (and delightfully familiar) heat rush through his body.

Embarrassed, he stood up and shuffled to the kitchen, biting his lip in frustration when he saw his cock was already half hard.

John was never going to be able to keep up with this tiresome, difficult, insane maniac of a man- but he was never, ever going to stop trying.


	5. Chapter 5

_**Epilogue**_

Sherlock didn't have friends. Sherlock didn't have girlfriends, or boyfriends, or enemies (though that was a different story altogether).

In fact, Sherlock had John Watson. And John Watson was his soul mate.

Before him, it was cold and clear, and the pain (emotional and mental and physical) was sharp and lucid, and he dulled it with drugs, though the respite was only temporary and a destructive kind of thrilling.

That was before he met his own "Raggedy Doctor", who was his own type of thrilling, one that filled Sherlock up somewhere inside and when gone, left behind a dull pain throbbing in his wake.

It had snuck up on him, Sherlock pondered idly, studying John's smooth back, only a few inches from his face. He memorized every dip and dive, every mole and spot and stored the information in a special place back in the shady corners of his mind marked "Never Delete."

This feeling, the one he had clawed and bit and shouted at to just _leave_, because no one wanted it- he thought he might love it. He loved all of it.

Sherlock wanted to reach out and drag a finger lightly down the other man's back, but he felt unusually timid, a feeling that he was becoming used to with John. He bit his lip and extended his hand, feeling a sharp kick of exhilaration when the pad of his pointer finger made contact with the man's skin.

He traced his name, just like John had done last night. With that thought, memories bubbled up and jumped in his brain, colorful and obscene and unbidden- John's hand in his hair, tightly fisted in need, John's tongue, soft and warm on the base of his cock and on the ring of muscles in his arse.

He shivered, with either pleasure or want or doubt, and splayed his palm in the middle of his flatmate's back. It felt hot, and solid, and impossibly smooth.

Then he felt John stir, just the tiniest bit, and Sherlock's removed his hand like lightning and wished he had chosen to leave the bed ten minutes ago like he'd considered doing. He flipped slowly onto his back, withdrawing into the cold periphery of the sheets, leaving the warmth that radiated from his flatmates's skin.

He felt the doctor turn over, slowly, and kept his eyes locked on the ceiling. He found when he let himself look into John's eyes he did things that were illogical and unwise and possibly insane- even more than he was already.

"Morning," was the sleepy greeting from a quite content John Watson, and Sherlock wished he could turn his head just the littlest bit to see if the word was accompanied with a smile.

Sherlock rubbed the back of his head against his pillow, wishing absurdly for a moment that it would be replaced by a part of John. He sighed and frowned.

"Sherlock?" Damnit, John sounded nervous and lost again, like he had yesterday, and Sherlock couldn't handle it. He deigned to turn his face towards the other man.

John was staring at him with an uneasy look. "You alright?" He asked, throat gravelly from sleep.

Sherlock drank in his face, the curves of his lips, the slight stubble on his chin- which felt delightfully rough against certain sensitive areas, Sherlock had discovered last night.

He blinked. "Yes. Fine." He watched the other man's blue- so impossibly blue- eyes and imagined he could see himself mirrored back in them. "I'm fine."

John smiled then- languorous and lazy and decadent- and Sherlock felt something rise in his stomach, twisting and unwieldy. He swallowed, and the room felt humid and very loud, and John's face was close to him, very close, and John was kissing him-

And they fell back into the old, smooth rhythm with ease, except soon it was anything but smooth and his blood pounded and shapes were starting to lose their edges and it was all John, nothing else.

Soon the other man swung himself up and straddled Sherlock's waist, bouncing very lightly against his cock.

Sherlock decided that speaking would probably be a very bad idea, at least in regards to his dignity, so he pressed his lips shut and just watched in awed silence.

John was still smiling, in an infuriating "Gotcha" way, and began to press down harder on the now thick ride of Sherlock's erection.

The detective bit back a growl. He hated being played with.

"John…" He snarled in warning, trying to resist. "Stop-" he choked as the other man ground himself down in a very deliberate way. "-it," he finished lamely, bringing his hips up into John instinctively, almost groaning.

The doctor relented. Still grinning, John teasingly crawled down Sherlock's body and paused over his groin, catching Sherlock's eyes meaningfully with his own and licking his reddened lips suggestively.

The detective most definitely did not gulp, and his cock absolutely did not twitch. At all.

John hooked his thumbs under the band of Sherlock's pajamas, and pulled slowly, but couldn't manage to drag them over the rise of his arse. "Lift," he commanded with a smirk. Sherlock tried to frown, but his face seemed to have frozen. He lifted.

His pants came down, and his underwear along with it. John held his eyes, leant down, and licked a slow, teasing line from root to tip.

The detective moaned, bucking, but John held him down and mouthed at the head, dipping his tongue into the slit and thrumming his tongue against the underside. Sherlock's mind went white, and he realized distantly that he was gasping.

John finally took pity on him, and Sherlock could swear he smiled carefully around his cock before taking him fully into his mouth and sucking like there was no tomorrow.

It only took a few thrusts, and Sherlock constrained himself as not to choke the other man, and then he was coming, scraping a weak rumble of "John!" out of the jagged mess of his throat.

John swallowed him down carefully, then withdrew, licking his lips in a way that made Sherlock want to weep with lust.

Hyperbole, he thought detachedly, shaking his head at the phrase. John had irrevocably ruined his eloquence.

Speaking of John- the doctor had his eyed closed, breathless and red-faced, cock straining against his own pajamas. Sherlock watched as his arm, almost of its own accord, reached out to his friend and pulled out his shaft, wrapping his hand around it carefully, and jerking him off fast and quick.

John came rapidly, moaning out "Sherlock" as he emptied white stickiness onto the other man's hand, and then collapsed next to him.

Sherlock studied his hand, coated in come. He rubbed his fingers together curiously. They were slippery, and he put one in his mouth.

John made a strange sound beside him. Sherlock looked over to see the man staring at him, mouth open, pulse beating fast again in his neck.

Sherlock frowned in confusion, then understood. _Ah_. This- he slipped another finger into his mouth, sucking a bit- was considered arousing. John was watching his every movement, wide-eyed, and looking vaguely terrified.

John moistened his lips. "You-" he swallowed. "You should bloody damn well be put in jail, you insane man." He forced his eyes closed with some reluctance. "I'm taking a shower. When I open my eyes again, please have your hand out of your mouth." He allowed a few seconds just in case.

Sherlock extracted his fingers, feeling a bit of his usual smugness. There- he'd shown John. He could be just as sexual as his bloody flatmate, even with all his fancy tonguing and sucking.

John finally opened his eyes and studiously avoided the other man's gaze, sliding off the bed and wandering a bit dazedly into the bathroom. Sherlock hear the shower turn on and snuggled back into the warm space John had just vacated, wiping his hand carelessly on the pillow. He decided he liked the smell of sex, musky and dirty, especially when mixed with the smell of John.

John poked his head back out, biting his lip in what Sherlock guessed was hesitation.

"Erm, d'you want to-" he paused- "maybe- pop in, too?"

Sherlock felt the corners of his mouth turn up. He nodded. John smiled, and Sherlock felt his heart grow and beat wildly inside his chest.

There it was again, he sighed as his feet touched the cold floor- those_ ridiculous_ clichés.

Then again, Sherlock decided, as he observed the rumpled sheets, the dents their bodies left on the mattress- he very much thought he had a good chance of a happily ever after.

_**Endnote- So that's it, guys! Many thanks to everyone who read and reviewed, the comments made me so very happy!**_


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